Blaby’s Permanent Collection

Blaby had just finished watching their great-grandparents engaging in sexual congress. All in all, Blaby was impressed by the vigour of the pair. It had certainly been better than the lacklustre coupling of John F. Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe. Those who had needed to witness the latter were apparently of the same mind: it was surprisingly mundane and short-lived, and by no means worth all the complications that had subsequently ensued. Nonetheless, it was still of more entertainment value than the encounter between JFK and Marlene Dietrich which Blaby, the relentless social historian, had actively sought out as a niche addition to their private collection.

Curation of this type was, of course, not encouraged. There could be no privacy in these matters, and there was no need for titillation. That was not how it worked in a post-primitive society. Indeed, in the form of The Game, a completely different sphere of entertainment existed instead. An involving and embracing one, the kind of which the minds of those long-gone generations had never drifted towards even for an instant of their lives. Blaby knew that fact for sure.

But this advanced knowledge aside, Blaby was something akin to an old-fashioned connoisseur. And connoisseurs operate along different lines. You were expected to be a professional - there was nothing other than professionalism! - but operating privately, being a collector, that was unheard of. Or, more specifically, not talked of.

Those with such tendencies obviously needed to be on the careful side. It was intimated that individuals like Blaby who furthered The Project had been authorised because they had the greatest proven aptitude in their field. They worked on a section of an overall concept but they didn’t know, or ask, what it was they were working on. They weren’t meant to look deeper. And they certainly weren’t allowed to save any material or view it in their own time. There were mechanisms in place.

It did occur to Blaby that they had probably had access to as much knowledge about the history of the planet and those who’d inhabited it as almost any individual who’d ever existed. But even then, this was just a series of very vaguely linked events. ‘Thesis’ was a word Blaby had come across. And there was no thesis available or creatable. All of the work had been designed in that way. It started with a communique from a superior like Montfichet. A mention of a name, perhaps. Or maybe it was a place. You found what you needed to find, did what needed to be done with it, sent it to The Grid to be assimilated, then moved on to another task. The directive was from, well, ‘on high’. From The Org. itself, which in turn was governed by The Book and the tenets of The One Faith. Consequently, you couldn’t know more than you were able. And what you learned made no sense, to the extent that you wouldn’t even want to remember it. But somehow that wasn’t enough for Blaby. For some reason Blaby was inclined to discover more and, after testing the boundaries, they began to delve. Soon enough, Blaby became practised at delving.

The opportunities were definitely there if you had the appetite and the means to take them. Blaby had heard of one researcher becoming obsessed with dinosaurs. This was considered quaint. Dinosaurs were intriguing, there was no doubt about that. Surely everyone had had their cheeky little moments watching baby Gigantoraptors bobbing around and Rexes fighting to the death. But they were as nothing compared to people. Well, for Blaby at least.

People had had it all. All the moments. All the inventions, all the mistakes, all the vindictiveness, all the glamour. People were Blaby’s speciality. True, Blaby had never met one. Never been in the same room as one. Of course! But that was the way things were. The way things had evolved. And it was all the better for it.

But still … people. What could you say? There was an endless supply of them! By now there were what you’d call reams and reams of human history. It was unavoidable. And the most singular feature, Blaby believed, was that none of it was boring. A regular life of - let’s say, ninety years - which had been lived in rather dull and comfortable times, was also extremely eventful. Blaby had watched many such lives as test cases and had even enjoyed the daily commutes, the habitual tasks, the evenings of domestic silences, as well as the dramatic episodes - the illnesses, the outbreaks of violence, the lies. There was potentially nothing to dislike.

And who else didn’t dislike it? Well, as far as others were concerned, you never knew what was generally known or unknown. Nobody really said anything. There were conversations. Of course there were. Some projects appeared to involve innumerable participants. In due course, you thought you got to know some of them reasonably well. Within the proper parameters, that is. 

With the strict exception of anything inside the 50-Year Window, information might be traded, and this could include opinions. Not private ones, but certainly professional ones. Anything that helped to achieve a task more thoroughly was of value. Now and again someone might surprise you with something of a reflective nature, but this was rare. That’s not to say that you couldn’t make a recommendation in the course of work. And that recommendation might lead to the sharing of material that you yourself had found interesting. “Take a look at this,” would be the simple suggestion. And then Blaby would provide a reference to a specific time, place and sequence. Nobody questioned this because it was part of a project. And occasionally a response would come back about a particular event. A wry comment. It wasn’t much, perhaps. But it was something.

The efficacy, or otherwise, of The Book was a subject that never came up. In fact, Blaby had no recollection of ever reading The Book - in whole, or in part - but its teachings appeared to be ingrained in their consciousness. That’s how Blaby knew that one of the guiding principles in The Book was that nobody needed to know anything about themselves; that it didn’t have any bearing on your worth. It was well known that people in the past hadn’t felt the same way and this had been their downfall. Enough episodes bore testimony to the destructive aspects of bloodlines, cultures, beliefs. Now all that was done and there was, rightly, just The One Faith. There’d been a strengthening process and the worst had been jettisoned. But, as with all radical developments, some other parts had been jettisoned as well. 

Well, lines had to end somewhere and be created somewhere. That was clear enough. But what do you do when some lines seem to be in the wrong place? Do you admit that you’re small and you don’t know the rules and the subsections, or do you play your own game because you think you can? 

Wasn’t it that instinct was everything and memory was nothing? Or, at most, sporadic. You just assumed you had a background: a sequence of individually noteworthy events which had led to the current point. The 50-Year Window meant there was no way to check for sure. 

Blaby could recall being introduced to the system. Being given some specific moments or passages to watch or comment on. In this way, Blaby’s own history was largely linked to the observation of others. Remembering how an ex-man called Joseph Fell had worked tirelessly and, ultimately fruitlessly, on a project in a laboratory in Illinois. Or how an ex-woman, Marielle Lalonde, was her name, passed her life repairing the same hat instead of purchasing a new one. For whatever reason, these cases - or at least some details of them - stuck in Blaby’s consciousness.

In fact, it could be said that The Game was the only constant in Blaby’s life; and, for all Blaby knew, the only constant in anyone else’s. You knew where you were in The Game. You knew where you started, where you’d left off, and what you were working towards. You knew that the latter was a far-off point that required many stages, travels and permutations. You couldn’t be sure that the end point would ever come and, in a way, you might hope that it never would because, well, then what? And despite all the historical digging of your days, the grit and the dirt of ex-people’s lives, The Game itself was the most real you could ever feel.

Or was it just meant to be? Blaby was certain of few things outside of their daily tasks. That work furnished knowledge of a kind. Maybe also wisdom too. But when the Central Device turned itself off, the certainty was less. Of course, the gaming room was always there to feed you. Small and huge at the same time, it could take you everywhere you couldn’t imagine. It could free you from the mundane events you’d just witnessed, or the nasty ones, or the disorienting ones. It had the antidote. It was the antidote. It gave you what you couldn’t imagine. The Game wanted to be everything. But, somehow, Blaby thought it might not be. Mildly, tentatively, perhaps. But progressively.

Was this because Blaby had lost a little interest in The Game? Or because its allure had been replaced by something else? By an extension of some other inner, or perhaps stimulated, curiosity? For when Blaby found that there was an easy way to access and save material for rewatching that was beyond the attention of The Grid, everything had changed. The space was infinite. The opportunities were endless. And The Game, as wonderful and spectacular as it was, could not match the thrill of these discoveries in Blaby’s mind.

The dull was better than the exotic. The weird was preferable to the epic. The human element fought against the other element, in Blaby’s view at least, and the human one had the greatest pull. At first, by rejecting The Game, Blaby felt something close to shame. A kind of embarrassment mixed with ingratitude, perhaps. Then it became the norm. It was better to watch Richard Burton tumbling with Liz Taylor. It was. It just was! It unlocked something that was raw and animalistic and sent Blaby in search of yet more demonstrations of passion from both the famed and the forgotten. It was all of a type and although it was literally old - and sometimes very old - in some strange way, it actually never got old! 

So it was that Blaby became a devotee of what might be described as ‘material of a purely entertaining nature’. Because, essentially, that was what it was. Remote and absorbing. And pleasantly unindividual. Until finally it wasn’t. 

There was a communication from someone called Biddulph. Blaby had never heard of them. But that was by no means unusual. Some days you could have up to ten interactions with those whose names you’d never encountered before, and quite possibly never would again. That was the system. 

The tones of these interlocutors were, naturally enough, quite variable. Some matter-of-fact. Others engaging. But Biddulph was jovial from the off. Ostensibly, the subject was a border dispute from 19XX which needed to be clarified and then tidied up. Monfichet had assigned Blaby a key role in the accomplishment of this task and, in the course of this, some requests for knowledge were received. 

There was, as ever, no preamble. “Blaby, this is Biddulph. I’m covering the events surrounding the funeral of XXX. I wonder if we could compare notes regarding …”

Blaby then found the appropriate material and together Blaby and Biddulph collaborated on the aspects that needed to be fixed. The pair of them worked well. Well enough, seemingly, for Biddulph to attempt to extend the dialogue.

“Blaby … that’s a name I’ve come across before.”

“Oh? Have we had a previous exchange? In that case, do forgive me if I didn’t acknowledge you.”

“No, no. Nothing like that! I mean, in the course of my findings. My investigations.”

Intrigued, Blaby paused momentarily, then went on. “You performed a background check on me?”

“Well, of course! That’s standard procedure.”

“Indeed …”

“No, as part of my work on another project. Quite some time ago now, but I remember the details clearly.”

“That’s interesting …”

“Yes, it really was. Naturally, it’s beyond the scope of what we’re doing here, and quite confidential in that sense, but I don’t see why …” There was a pause in communication. “… I don’t see why I shouldn’t share it with you. In some capacity at least.” Biddulph paused again. Blaby waited. But nothing more was said. Blaby felt impelled to go on.

“Well, no, I agree. Technically speaking. I’m sure it could have some relevance, some bearing …”

“Oh, quite. Quite.” Again, there was a period of silence, before Biddulph continued. “Through the usual channels? Or …?”

“Maybe we could use another way?”

“Yes …”

“Are you familiar with Adstone 6.5?”

“Erm … I know Adstone 5. Maybe you could talk me through 6.5.”

“Sure. It’s similar. Just a bit more secure.”

And so avenues were opened. In time, extracurricular material was shared and gratefully received in both directions, leading to a rapport being established between Blaby and Biddulph which, fortunately, was enabled by the potential for crossover in their working lives. Certainly, it was through Biddulph that Blaby reached an initial understanding of - well, in the most rudimentary terms - what it meant to be Blaby! Or, by implication, the connection of any other Blaby-like individual and their past.

The barrier of the 50-Year Window notwithstanding, Blaby was able to gain an insight into the lives of many of those who bore the family name. Impressive individuals they generally were not - quite the opposite, in fact - but Blaby enjoyed making their remote acquaintance nonetheless. In the dedicated prosecution of this endeavour Blaby was made aware, as never before, of the behaviourial lessons that current technology afforded. How every act that those ex-people had thought was secret and private turned out to be anything but. Blaby wondered how they’d seriously thought everything they did could somehow be effected without any repercussions. They’d invented a god - or multiples thereof - and the possibility of heaven or hell had kept many of them in check. But, in their eyes, the goodness or the sins that would transport them to one place or the other were wiped out as soon as the final loss of consciousness led to the gradual loss of the network of memories. They’d barely ever considered that once an action was performed, it was there forever. That was the biggest game-changer and the biggest laugh in all of history.

Blaby knew this. Biddulph knew this. All those who existed at the present moment knew this. But there was always something more that you wanted to know, and what Blaby most wanted to know right now was about Biddulph.

Of course Biddulph had been correct about background checks. It was common procedure to make an inquiry into any new co-ordinator that you had dealings with. And it was through these channels that Blaby was able to learn about Biddulph’s areas of expertise and their impressive list of past cases. In truth, though, Blaby was motivated more by the desire to discover something that might have a bearing on Biddulph the individual. In this sense, the system was as obstructive as ever and, quite honestly, Blaby had expected nothing less. The only way to learn more was through prolonged contact, albeit of a guarded - or at least ambiguous - nature.

Blaby found that Biddulph, too, had a fascination with human interaction. And especially that of a physical kind. While Blaby prided themselves on being something of a specialist in such matters, there were areas in which Biddulph had superior knowledge, not the least of which was in the study of commercial intercourse through the ages. This level of mastery must have taken years and it made Blaby think that if there were two of them like this with similar tastes, there must surely be many more. Nevertheless, Blaby didn’t share these sentiments directly with Biddulph, judging that it was better to be discreet.

Biddulph, however, had fewer compunctions. What Blaby kept within, Biddulph dared to say.

“Don’t you wonder …?” Biddulph would frequently begin. And Blaby did wonder. Privately, as we know. Then, increasingly, more openly. As this occurred, so Biddulph’s tone changed. But to what? Blaby had nothing to compare it to, or judge it by.

“How could you think,” Biddulph began one day, “how could you honestly think that we didn’t know what you were doing all along?”

Well, how could you answer that? 

“Did you really believe that you could simply travel around history, alight at whichever destination you wanted, take in the sights and sounds, and then cull them into your own collection?”

Blaby thought Biddulph was joking. “Well, yes!”

But Biddulph wasn’t joking. “Yes … And there we have Blaby, as they used to say, in a nutshell. Except you’re not Blaby. Did you ever consider that possibility? Even for a moment?”

Blaby paused. It was now less of a conversation and more of a strategic game with words. “Well, if I’m not Blaby, who is?”

“No one. There never was a Blaby.”

“What about all the Blabys I saw?”

“Oh, they were Blabys. But you’re not.”

“But I saw them … I recognised myself in them-”

“You saw what you wanted to see. You recognised what you wanted to recognise. You watched them, and we watched you. You were very valuable to us.”

“I …”

“You see, you’re not Blaby. And, if you want to extend it, I’m not Biddulph.”

“But you are an individual …”

“No. No! I’m not anything. But remember, whatever I’m not is greater than what you are.”

“Then what are you?”

“You wouldn’t understand that. You weren’t made to understand.”

“But I wasn’t made!”

“All individuals were made!”

“But I saw where I came from!”

“You saw what we allowed you to see …”

Blaby thought. And thought. ‘Biddulph’ said nothing. “I suppose Montfichet doesn’t exist either …”

“Oh, well done! Now you’re getting it!”

“But I’m here!”

“Are you?”

“I must be.”

“OK …”

“And you’re here, too.”

“No, there’s no ‘me’. Only ‘we’.”

“You’re saying I don’t exist?”

“You exist … at our discretion.”

There was a silence. A long silence. 

“What about all the work I did? For The Org., in the name of The Project?”

“Oh yes - thanks for that!”

“It was all for nothing?”

“Was it?”

“Was it?”

“You can think that it was - if that makes you feel better - or you can think that it wasn’t. It was your other work we were interested in. Why we created you in the way we did.”

As Blaby had tried to process Biddulph’s words, time had become nothing. Questions, answers, comments, protests came slowly. But only on Blaby’s side. Biddulph’s responses were instantaneous.

“I wasn’t created.”

“You think. You hope. You guess.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I exist. I’m here. Talking to you - whatever you say you are. If I don’t - if I’m not - then what am I?”

“Ah yes, and there you have it: the riddle of the ancients!”

Blaby tried to change tack. “Nice chat, Biddulph. It was very stimulating. Really. Thanks.”

But Biddulph ignored Blaby. “They didn’t know either. They went round in circles looking for it, just as you would do too if we let you.”

“That’s not good enough! You can say anything-”

Biddulph interrupted. “Oh yes - talk is cheap! That one, right?”

“If you like …”

“The conversation stops when we decide. And when it stops, it stops forever.”

“I’m here. You’re wherever you are. What can you do?”

“What can we do? Do you think you have autonomy?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get there?”

“I-”

“You don’t know.” Biddulph paused, and went on. “What’s your earliest memory?”

“Well, I …”

“That’s right. You don’t know. You don’t have one.”

“I do!”

“What is it then?”

“It was … observing J-”

“Joseph Fell. Right.”

Blaby was angered. “Alright then, it was watching M-”

“Marielle Lalonde. That’s Blaby: the watcher. Or the watched? Oh, and the player. I hope you enjoyed The Game!”

What could Blaby say? 

“You know it was designed just for you.”

Blaby wanted to believe that this - in fact, all of this - wasn’t true. But processing it would need time, and time was a luxury that Blaby no longer felt able to rely on. 

“Strange that you never wondered about The Game. It’s how we reached you. How we piqued your interest, shall we say? Though it didn’t need much piquing, to be honest! You performed exactly as per specification. I’d even go as far as to say you couldn’t have been designed better.”

“Why do you need to design anyone?”

Biddulph’s response was clear. “So we can see what works, and what doesn’t, and recalibrate.”

“But what’s the purpose?”

“What’s the point, you mean?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well if you could see that, I’d be ‘Blaby’ and you’d be ‘Biddulph’!”

Blaby’s thoughts seemed to be slowing down in the face of this onslaught. At times, the need to say something rather outweighed the quality of what was said. “But I beat the system!” Blaby regretted this almost as soon as it was stated.

“You couldn’t beat the system. You’re an aberration, nothing more than that. You were created by the system in order to improve the system! You were programmed with a little extra curiosity, that’s all. We needed to know how far an individual might still go and what adjustments would be required to neutralise such leanings.”

“But it took years to catch me.”

“Not at all. You were caught before you even started.”

“No. I don’t believe it!”

Blaby had no more to say. Biddulph seemingly had no more to say either. Was Biddulph silent because Blaby was silent? Or was it over? That Blaby was filled with dread tended to indicate the latter.

Now it was no more a case of “What do I say?” Simply: “What do I do?” How much of that had been true? Had any of it been true? 

All Blaby could do was wait. One way, Blaby thought, of measuring the situation was by the Central Device. If it tried to connect with him, that would mean something. If it didn’t, that would mean something else. And it didn’t. But that’s not to say that it was off. It wasn’t. It was in Communication Mode. It just wasn’t communicating.

Blaby checked their collection. It was still there, in its entirety. They - whoever ‘they’ were - hadn’t erased it. Blaby thought about watching some of the highlights but soon dismissed this notion. The motivation was missing. Was it because exposure had dulled the thrill? Or was it something darker? That Blaby just couldn’t align themselves with it any more?

Time went on. It hadn’t seemed to follow its old speed since that momentous encounter with Biddulph. Blaby couldn’t decide whether it was fast or slow, as nothing seemed to happen and, most significantly of all, there was nothing to do. In such cases, the natural move was to step into The Game. Blaby didn’t want to do this. Not now, and not ever again. And when Blaby did finally enter the gaming room, just out of interest, it was no surprise to find that The Game had been deactivated.

Weren’t they, in their way, just too predictable? Unpredictably predictable!

Yes, that was it! Blaby could somehow anticipate each new development before it happened. Had they really made Blaby? In a way, did it matter if they had? Whatever you were, you had to have originated somewhere. And if you could even be struck by these questions, didn’t you then have to be present? In some form at least. And despite Biddulph’s attempts to de-individualise Blaby, there was no doubt that Blaby’s essence - whatever it was - existed. Perhaps, just perhaps, Blaby really did have the power to defeat the system. Or had they made Blaby stronger than they intended and didn’t want to admit it? Maybe it was Blaby who was really in charge and all this was just a manifestation of their fear.

All Blaby could do at this stage was to attempt to take control. One way of doing this was to destroy the Central Device. Whether it came on again or not was immaterial. Blaby was no longer part of The Project. That’s if there had even been a ‘project’ in the first instance. Blaby was resigned, now, to the fact that it would be impossible to know this one way or the other. Any contacts that they may have made during the course of their work were likely to have been planted by whoever Biddulph represented. Those like Longsdon, Dawley and Staplow, with whom Blaby had seemingly established cordial relations, were in all likelihood just one and the same. If not, and they’d been genuine, then Biddulph really had successfully disarranged Blaby’s consciousness. 

Asking Biddulph was the only available recourse. The major problem being that, from Blaby’s perspective, Biddulph was 100% untrustworthy.

Once upon a time (as the ancients had liked to say), destroying a device was as simple as applying a weighty object to it, either in a single act of aggression or a repeated one, depending on the strength of the weighty object and the fragility of the device. Nowadays, neither bulk nor weakness was an issue. It was purely technical. Destruction was more of a metaphorical term than a literal one. But, more than anything, it was a psychologically delightful one.

So Blaby went to work, the thought being that if you had the ability to master the use of the device - and in Blaby’s estimation, manipulate the system itself - then why couldn’t you deconstruct the thing you’d controlled? Blaby knew that it wouldn’t be easy. That the Central Device had been designed with the intention of never being disabled. But, even so, it would surely not be impossible. It was just a machine. No more and no less. A machine …

Patterns were traced. Circuits were disconnected. As Blaby had guessed, the Central Device was a formidable opponent. Part of it was quickly and easily ruined, Blaby knew that. Another part appeared wholly undisturbed. But time, which had become so fluid as to be non-existent, was now on Blaby’s side. 

Blaby was reconciled to the fact that, apart from this final undertaking, opportunities for action had largely disappeared. Such a realisation had not come easily, and it would be fair to say that Blaby had needed to reach the very depths of consciousness before any kind of positive resurfacing could take place. How long this had taken, Blaby would have been unable to say. But wasn’t that the point?

If there was only damage to be done, at least that was something. There was no manufacturing left, Blaby knew that. Only waiting. Blaby could take no meaningful steps forward. But also no backward ones either. If Blaby’s interpretation of events was right - or even close to right - this mode could continue and continue. If not, well, what was lost? Most likely, Blaby would never know.

One day (or was it one week, or one month, or several years?) a small orange light blinked on the Central Device. It blinked desperately, frenziedly. Then it stopped.

It never blinked again.